In A Name
by Lisbet Adair
Summary: The men of Task Force 141 have some unusual nicknames, and there's a story behind each one. This is a series of short vignettes about certain oddly named individuals.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Chemo**

"The _both_ of them?" exclaimed Ghost, incredulously.

"Yup." Chemo sank back in the chair and put his feet up on the coffee table. He grinned back at Ghost with the smug smile of the sexually satisfied.

In the lounge of the Task Force's housing, a vital post-mortem was in progress. The night before had been Roach's thirtieth birthday, and this had been marked with a night of raucous celebration. Roach now lay on the sofa beside them, in pretty much the same position as Ghost had deposited him, comatose, the night before when they had staggered home. He was covered in a blanket and the only reason that they knew he was still alive were the intermittent groans of apparent ultimate suffering.

Ghost had last seen Chemo perched on a bar stool, sandwiched between two gorgeous Swedish students who had been lucky or unlucky enough to have been sitting at the bar when the team burst through its doors, singing loudly and incoherently. He remembered that they had been tall, blonde and mostly made of lithe, toned legs, which should have, in Ghost's opinion put them out of the league of the ugly bastards on the Task Force, _especially_ Chemo.

"How do you do it?" he asked, exasperated. According to Chemo, the girls had shared a hotel room and had keenly extended this arrangement to include him.

"What can I say, man? The ladies love me. Good looks-"

"My _arse_!"

"Charm."

"_Charm_?" Ghost spluttered. "Give over! Getting hit on the head with a brick's more charming than you." He scowled jealously into his tea.

"What are you two chatting about?" MacTavish appeared behind them. He was halfway through a bacon roll. When he spoke, crumbs erupted.

"How women find me irresistible." Replied Chemo.

"And I think it's bollocks!" snapped Ghost.

"You are not wrong." Replied MacTavish. He lifted the blanket and watched Roach curl away from the light, groaning. He laughed.

"What?" said Ghost.

"It's my balls." Replied Chemo.

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"Oh? You've not heard this story?" MacTavish dropped the blanket back over Roach and sat down on the edge of the table.

"No. What story?" Ghost looked between them, confused.

"I had cancer." Said Chemo.

"Really? When?"

"Oh. When I was younger. One day, I was just whacking it off and then I noticed this big-ass lump on one of my boys."

Ghost hooted with laughter. Chemo gave him a look. "Sorry." He stopped.

"_Anyway_, it turned out to be cancer. So they had to chop it out."

"So you've only got one bollock?" said Ghost.

"Not quite. In order to balance things back out, they put in a prosthetic."

"A fake bollock?" Ghost's brow furrowed as he tried to imagine what this would look like.

"In less eloquent terms: yes."

"And this gets you women how?"

"Oh, you know. They love a sob story. So I just work it into the conversation. Tell them all about the emotional agony and when they're hooked I just drop in about the prosthetic and then -this is the kicker- they ask if you can tell which one is which and I merely offer them the chance to find out."

"You're _joking_." Ghost stared, open mouthed, at this revelation.

"True story, bro. Every damn time. Always curious, always want to prove to you that they're smart."

"And they go for it?"

"Most times. Some of them even pop the question straight off; ask if they can get a feel." Chemo took a sip of coffee.

"You sly _bastard_!" Ghost thumped the table with his fist and laughed. A thought struck him. "Do they get it right?"

Chemo rocked his head from side to side. "Sometimes."

"How hard can it be?" Ghost shrugged.

"You want to find out?"

Ghost snorted. "In your dreams."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Poet**

"You wanted to see me, Sir?"

"Aye."

It was late in the evening, but Poet found MacTavish still in his office. The only light came from an ancient spring-arm desk lamp, illuminating the mess of papers that lay strewn across the workspace. The light cast long, dark shadows across MacTavish's face. Poet didn't know how old the man was, but tonight he looked ancient, and troubled. Crumpled balls of paper formed little piles over the floor. Poet tiptoed between them and sat down.

The air of the room was thick with the sweet, choking stench of cigar smoke. MacTavish took a long drag and then stubbed the remains in the overflowing ashtray. He looked at Poet, sizing him up, for longer than Poet felt comfortable with. It made it worse that he couldn't think of anything he'd done to warrant being called to see the captain.

"Is there something wrong?" asked Poet, eventually.

MacTavish looked at him and pursed his lips. Poet wondered if that was the wrong question.

"The boys tell me that you're a writer." Said MacTavish, steepling his fingers under his chin and sliding them up across his lips to rest them under his nose.

Poet blinked. He hadn't been expecting this line of questioning.

"Yes, sir. I had a short story published last month." He frowned, confused. "Is that a problem? It wasn't about my work."

"No." Said MacTavish, and then he sighed. "Look. This is a... personal matter."

Poet nodded. He felt it would be simpler if he pretended he understood..

"There are some things..." MacTavish looked past Poet, into the corner of the room and then he stopped. He sat forward and clasped his hands on the desk. "As a man..." He sighed and then looked up at Poet "I mean... Women? Eh?" He laughed, nervously.

Poet smiled benignly, trying to not betray his concern. He had no idea what MacTavish was talking about, and was beginning to suspect he might have finally flipped. "They certainly... are." He concurred.

"You're married, right?" MacTavish asked, abruptly.

"Yes, sir. Four years. We have a house in Santa Barbera, and a dog."

MacTavish nodded. "Do you write to her?"

Poet blinked. _What the hell is this?_ "Yes, sir. Every week."

"Every _week_?" said MacTavish, incredulous. "What the hell do you write about?"

"How things are going." Poet shrugged. "That I love her."

"You tell her you love her?"

_Jesus. What does he want from me? _"Yes sir. That's why I married her." He said. He was starting to feel a little anxious by the line of questioning.

There was a very pregnant pause, and finally MacTavish said "How... how do you do that?"

"_What?"_ exclaimed Poet. He started to laugh and then he saw MacTavish's expression. "Look, sir. If you don't mind me asking, what is this about?"

MacTavish looked away for a moment, clearly embarrassed.

Enlightenment dawned. "This is about Dr Campbell, isn't it?"

"Who told you about that?" MacTavish snapped. Even the poor lightening, Poet could see the flush rising in the captain's face.

"Maybe I got a sixth sense." Poet answered. He spoke frankly. He sensed they were beyond the usual formal boundaries of their relationship. "Maybe I saw her not nailing your wrist when you crashed out that Humvee, and maybe I did see her sneaking out of the window last week.

MacTavish was silent again. Poet knew he'd hit the mark.

"Not a word of this leaves this office." Said MacTavish, his voice stern.

"Absolutely." Poet held up his hands. He didn't have the heart to tell him that the "secret" relationship was old news.

There was another awkward silence.

"Look." MacTavish said. "I need... help. " He passed over a crumpled piece of paper. Poet smoothed it out and read it. It took all his effort to keep his face steady.

"It's not funny." Growled MacTavish.

"Not at all sir." Poet bit his tongue to keep from laughing. "You do know that it doesn't all have to rhyme?"

"It's a _poem_."

"Well, yeah. But it doesn't _have_ to rhyme. It's about the images you try to put on paper. You know, stuff like the colour of her hair. I mean, like..." He suddenly felt nervous telling this to his boss. He scratched anxiously at the back of his head. "My wife is Hispanic, so she's dark. And I say, when she's thinking about something and I don't know what it is, I say that looking into her eyes is like scrying into a pool of molasses."

MacTavish seemed to think about this. "Molasses eh? That's like treacle, aye?"

"Uh. Yes, sir."

"Hannah's eyes are green, though." He frowned. "Wouldn't work.

"Well... green like the forest? Like emeralds?"

MacTavish looked thoughtful. Finally he replied "Kind of like disinfectant."

Poet sighed. It was going to be a long night.


End file.
